


In Imladris He Dwells

by Leigh Jackwood (Leigh_Jackwood)



Series: All That Glitters [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Family, Friendship, M/M, Mid SA to LotR, Part of my ridiculously long epic fic thing, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4207764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leigh_Jackwood/pseuds/Leigh%20Jackwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After death Glorfindel is given a task: to return to Middle Earth and bring about a battle that has been brewing since the dawn of time. War torn Eregion awaits him, battered and clinging to the last strength of the Noldor against the shadow of Sauron. Even when the Last Alliance prevails the shadow does not pass and in Imladris winter comes again, with only the promise of a long awaited dawn to keep the last of the Gondolodhrim fighting on.<br/>From the mid-Second Age to the Fellowship of the Ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Imladris He Dwells

**Author's Note:**

> This begins as Glorfindel (Laurefindil in Quenya) wakes up in Mandos, some 1500 years after the Fall of Gondolin.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel awakes in the Halls of Mandos.

**Awakening**

 

 

**Chapter One**

 

He awoke. That in itself was somewhat new. He could not describe and hope to do justice to what he felt. The floating sensation, the emptiness, the loss of anything to ground him to the earth. When it had started he could not remember, he only knew that now it was over and he felt something encasing him. For the first time his dreams became solid, clearer and there was a darkness he recognised. It lifted as he made something move. His eyes opened. His body, he remembered now, reacted slowly as he stirred, moving around clumsily.

 

"Be gentle in thy movements," a voice told him. Beautiful it was, the first sound he heard. He saw his body, lying beneath the blanket, saw his arms and hands move to push his torso up. Golden hair spilled around his face, tickling his cheeks and obstructing his vision. For a moment he marvelled at the feeling of his limbs, his face and his whole body, staring at it in wonder before turning his attention to the world around him. Solid, when all he had experienced for so long was hazy and insubstantial, a bed that was soft and firm beneath him, grey walls of stone covered in tapestries that bore every colour he could name. By the door, sat a figure.

 

"Dost thou know thy name?" she asked him, letting him hear something beside the sound of his own breathing again. For a moment he listened only to his lungs, then realised that she made no sound except for speaking. He thought it over, searching back, when the world had been solid also.

 

"Glorfindel," he said, trying out his voice that he remembered hearing dimly. It sounded different now, deeper and with a tone that he could not quite name. "Laurefindil." Neither seemed to be the correct answer.

 

"What else dost thou remember?" He closed his eyes and pushed back the mist. Images he remembered, faces flashed behind his eyes. Then falling through heat and flame, turning back one last time to look before darkness and searing fire. He sucked in his breath, unable to control his hands as they shook.

 

"The fire," he answered. Her face, he deemed it beautiful, darkened in an expression he had seen before: sorrow. He watched her and did not recognise her from what he remembered. She was too perfect in her beauty, carved by a master and radiating a brilliance that although somewhat hidden shone through her being. He looked at her to distract himself from the memories, the invisible heat lapping around him and the sharp pain in his neck.

 

 

"That time has passed. No harm may befall thee here." He believed her and the tension fell from his shoulders. Slowly he began to stretch his limbs, marvelling at the sensation of weight and warmth. His skin tingled where it touched the blankets and the light chemise he was dressed in.

 

It seemed to him that a long while had passed when the figure spoke again.

 

"Canst thou stand?" He once again pushed his torso up, this time with more success. It took him a moment to recall how to move his legs correctly and swing them down to the floor. Hard stone pushed back at his soles.

 

Lurching forward with little grasp of how exactly to stand, he toppled towards the ground. One knee gave way and instinct failed to take over, his arms useless by his side. Only the figure's hand prevented him from tumbling over. After a moment of swaying that made his ears aches from his newfound sense of balance, he was able to stand without assistance.

 

Steps were more complicated but after only modest mishaps he had made it to the door and some ability to control his own body had remerged. With each step he stood taller and by the time the room's door was far behind him he no longer needed a supporting arm.

 

The hallway was blank, barely temporal. He could not later recall what colour or surface the walls were, nor what windows let in the soft pale light. It passed like clouded clay water and it seemed as if he was slipping back into the mist of dreams.

 

"Mandos," he murmured when they reached firm wood panelled walls, covered in colourful hunting scenes. It had taken him a while to come to that conclusion, for his mind was as slow and stumbling as his feet.

 

The Halls of Mandos stretched out before him silent and cold. Perhaps he had once expected the sounds of thousands of his kin dancing and singing in joy at being returned to their bodies. He did not expect any such sounds now for even he could not summon much in the way of emotions. They were far too heavy to drag up from the depths of his mist-filled soul. There was no lightness in his body. He felt nothing but discomfort and an unsettled sensation of being walled in by the flesh of his limbs.

 

 

They walked slowly until he was no longer noticeably unsteady on his feet. As soon as he became aware that his steps were regular they entered a large round chamber. Sunlight fell from high windows of coloured glass to leave strips of gold and grey on the floor. The roof was lost in the distance, it had a size even his eyes could not comprehend. It seemed further away than the sky. Across the floor chairs, tables and cushions were strewn in a homely haphazard way. Along the walls stood high curved bookshelves with little ladders reaching balconies set at intervals going up. People sat around, reading and talking, some playing flutes or harps softly to themselves. It was a most serene and pleasant place.

 

“Rest here a while, thou shalt be in good company.” He turned to thank the figure but she had vanished. With some new sense of trepidation at meeting the strangers in the hall stepped forward. Partly due to shyness partly to steady himself, he kept to the bookshelves, running one hand along them absently.

 

“Come and join us!” a bright voice called from a group sitting on cushions and low chairs not far off. “Come, there is a seat for you!” Gingerly he went over, looking them over in awe. They were not elves, for some were not even in elven-form. Some sat, some were curled up as dogs or snakes, some simply were there, surrounding the others.

 

“There is no need to be afraid,” another said. “Sit with us.” So he sat between them in their circle on a large soft cushion, his coltish legs folded beneath him.

 

“Your name is Laurefindil,” a small one said with a wide, innocent grin. “What would you like? Someone play him something!” A harp was struck and began to play nearby. “Shall we all dance?” Some stood but he did not. Another voice had asked him that, it seemed, before the foggy dreams. Before the fire.

 

“You sadden him. Let us not dance.” Around him they whispered, making him dizzy.

 

“I am Rómen,” said a tall elven-form. “This is Hyarmen.” The small one waved. “Pay her no mind, there is no sadness in her nor the will to understand it.”

 

“For that I am a boon to all of you!” Hyarmen cried. “I shall fetch sweets.” With that she ran off towards some hidden door and Rómen sighed.

 

“You are walking well. This is a good sign. Perhaps soon, when you are ready, we will show you the gardens. Every day you will walk a little farther and find yourself a little stronger. You must be careful not to rush. Healing takes time, even when your body is new and has not suffered any wound.” Laurefindil looked down, pulling up his tunic with clumsy fingers. Where there had once been a long red and white scar across his dark skin, running under his left arm to above his heart, there was nothing but smooth unblemished flesh. He felt a sort of loss, what had once been a mark of his past was now gone.

 

“How can you miss a reminder of pain?” Rómen asked him. “That wound and its consequences hold nothing but sorrow and guilt for you.”

 

“It is as if it never happened,” he answered quietly. “As if none of that came to pass.” By wiping away his scars they had made it seem as if the loss of Aredhel and everything that came after was nothing. He did not wish to erase what was written on his skin. He did not need to look to know that every other scar had gone as well. There was no mark of when Artanis had pushed him from a window to the flagstones below and his elbow had been cut open, no pinpricks along his leg from a hunting accident badly sewn up in the wilderness. Centuries of life, from scrapes and cuts to grave wounds, all washed away.

 

“Every weakness is gone as well.” If Rómen sought to soothe him she did not manage it. He knew his body, or what had been his body. He knew that he favoured his right arm despite his father forcing him to use both equally. He knew that he could not turn as far on his left side due to his injury in losing Aredhel. A tender ankle, a knocked tooth, an indent in his shin bone from a fall he had long forgotten. All gone.

 

“I am not myself,” he whispered. “To look upon me one would say I have not lived.”

 

“Then come and make new scars and bruises!”

 

“Formen! That is not what he needs.” Formen shooed Rómen away, standing proudly in green leather and steel.

 

“She would have you taking one step a day, always resting and monitoring progress,” the green Maia told him in a conspiratorial tone. “There is no fun in that. You have not lost yourself, you merely have a chance now to make new scars and stories. If you like I can easily push you off a few horses.” Laurefindil found himself smiling at her. Beside them Rómen’s protests we cut off.

“I should have seen to it earlier. Let me find you a horse, and a hound for the chase.”

 

“No, Formen. You are not bringing your beasts in here. Calm, quiet and rest is what they need. Your adventures do them no good.”

 

“My adventures let them live, dear one.” Formen tipped her head to him in farewell and kissed Rómen’s cheek. “She will not see my way of thinking.”

They all moved so fast, he thought. So much faster than the Maia he knew before. Smiths and shipwrights, or else spirits of the forests and sea, they had no need to rush. Yet the energy in Formen and Hyarmen kindled something in him. It would not be so bad a place to stay, with these strange beings.


End file.
